The Summer is Over, 3

“The summer is over” the posters say, in clear block print, the handwriting slightly wobbly with haste, as if the scribe struggled to quickly spread the word. They’re haphazardly pasted on every wall around, or at least every clear surface that the woman can see. She bends down, and, indeed, the paper under her boot reads the same words, in the same distinct hand, ms running together in their haste to trail off into the er, distinction only returning with the sharp angle of the v.

The entire town is decorated with them, crookedly hanging off walls, slumping towards the ground, adhesive exhausted by time alone. She can just barely see the bike she rode in on in the distance, propped up in a grassy ditch by the side of the sole paved road on the edge of town, and she resists the urge to run back to it, to either leave the ghost town or to ensure that no signs had made their way onto the—certainly not pristine, but non-seasonal—frame. Instead, she continues to wander down the winding streets, taking in the sights but stopping short of touching any of them, until she comes to the house at the end of the lane.